Sex in a Bottle
by one four two nine seven eight
Summary: Hermione discovers that sometimes fictional scenerios do lay themselves out exactly as she'd imagined.


This is sex, but not very explicit, which is why I opted for the R rating instead of NC-17. There really isn't much to say about this, other than I doubt that it will be continued at all, unless I'm in another Hermione-is-a-sex-goddess mood, and that this is the kind of person I see Hermione as at sixteen.

::: ::: :::

It was snowing, and in the frost-covered windows of the Three Broomsticks, which glowed with a happy golden radiance from the candle sconces on the walls and round, twinkling lights on the chandeliers, table upon table was surrounded by laughing, bubbling Hogwarts students, Hogsmeade residents and patrons of the Three Broomsticks, and even professors from the menacing castle of a school which stood just outside of the tiny wizarding village. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily from a darkening sky, and in the west the thinning clouds burned gold and red and copper as the sun sank below the horizon. 

Inside Madam Rosmerta's well-kept business, at a remote corner table, a girl sat with her friends, the boys in her class. Though she was the only girl in the group, she was treated as an equal; rightfully so, because more often than not, she ensured the rest of their grades, as well as maintaining her own. She was nursing her third butterbeer of the evening, which warmed her insides with its amber glow and rich taste, and contributed to the conversation pleasantly without any indication that she was at the top of her class. Nearly four hours earlier, when the Gryffindors had chosen this table in the corner facing the door, she had slipped into the very corner, where she could watch the rest of the room with soft, chocolate eyes, which were thickly lashed and creased beautifully when she smiled.

She was beautiful, but whether or not any of the boys seated around her noticed, she did not care, nor did she entirely wish to know. Her eyes, shaped perfectly for her thin nose, pink rosebud lips, and cute chin, were sometimes hidden by a mass of ginger hair, which curled and fanned over her shoulders and back in a lush mane, but always seemed to show themselves if one chose to look. She was one of a lucky few who possessed a shapely body at sixteen, and beneath her uniform grey sweater and pleated skirt, perfect breasts gave way to full hips and long, flawless legs; her figure was one for which many girls would give almost anything. But unlike some girls, who unbuttoned their blouses to flaunt cleavage they barely had, or rolled up their skirt to give the boys in their class a show, she kept her beauty a well-kept secret to anyone who did not value her other gifts, her intelligence and wit and grace.

But because of her grades and good standing with most professors, even those she did not have, many of her peers saw her as the stereotypical "good girl" who spent her evenings studying, her afternoons buried in her books. In actuality, as several of the Gryffindors sitting around her table in the Three Broomsticks could witness, she was much more than the facade she maintained during the school day. She was not as innocent or pure as many people thought.

In the lazy hours before dawn, she had spent hours with Ron Weasley in an abandoned prefect's lounge, his fingers teasing her breasts and his hands chasing her legs into the folds of her skirt and his tongue hot on her neck. Without the confines of her sweater, she had tortured him for hours by refusing to allow her hands below his waist, until he had finally groaned and swore into her ear and pressed evidence of his torture against her on an antique chaise in the lounge; and with a skill she had not realized she possessed, she tickled his fancy with delicate fingertips and sultry words whispered into his ear.

When the rest of the house had gone out to observe the Gryffindor-Slytherin match determining the House Cup, she had offered to tutor Seamus Finnigan; the lesson had soon been forgotten, the table in the round Gryffindor common room cleared of books and quills and ink, and the sandy-haired boy had lapped at her rosy mouth with eager lips and a raw, guttural growl, his hands tangled in her mane of hair and pleated skirt.

Viktor Krum had always been taken with her. He had come to visit Hogwarts again in the fall just past, and they had spent hours together in one of many high-walled gardens on the grounds, Viktor's well-muscled limbs tangled in hers, his face nestled in her hair and between her legs, his kisses trailing across her trim belly and collarbone and earlobes, down her thighs and fingers and breasts. And her hands had become tangled in his dark hair, her fingers dancing over forbidden skin. He had said he loved her, in that garden, but she had merely smiled and purred and continued to nibble on his neck.

And while she was not especially selective in her beaus, she made it very clear to each of them that she appreciated their company, and their interest in her; but she would not by any means have sex, as she was quite insistent that she be in her own bed. With four nosy roommates, this would be quite impossible while she was still a student at Hogwarts, which was convenient for her and exasperating for her admirers.

In the Three Broomsticks that evening, the boys were discussing proper Quidditch brooms, but she, hardly interested in Quidditch or brooms, was reflecting upon each of her friends at the table.

Immediately to her right, Harry Potter leaned over the tabletop, his naturally tousled black hair falling over electric green eyes, a shocking contrast to his pale and perfect complexion. In fact, his hair nearly covered the jagged scar on his forehead, and the top rims of his round glasses. One thing she admired especially about Harry was that, while it was a school day and professors were strict about uniforms, he now wore a plain t-shirt and torn jeans beneath his school robes, and she could see the collar of the t-shirt in the V of the robes; his neck was graceful and curved slightly to create an enticing shadow. But she knew better than to lust after Harry Potter, of all people. He was not her type; he was quite intent on only fooling around with a girlfriend - and she was not the girlfriend type. She was much too independent, too happy to be alone.

To Harry's right was round-faced Neville Longbottom. His dark eyes were permanently sad about something, but she was particularly uninterested as to why, and his grandmother was much to overbearing. It seemed quite obvious that the Neville's "Gran" wore the pants in their relationship, and he was much too forgetful and dull. No, he would be even more apt to need a steady girlfriend than Harry.

Dean Thomas, she considered, was quite handsome, tall and dark with a bright, contrasting smile of white, even teeth - but he was also quite, shy, retiring. And, she remembered with an inward grin, he was quite taken with Lavender Brown, another quite Gryffindor. She was willing to ignore girlfriends, but only for those boys of whom she was particularly fond.

And Seamus, next in line, with his sandy hair falling into his pale blue eyes, was very good-looking, she had to admit; his freckles seemed to have been casually tossed over his little nose, his face creased when he smiled, and he often cast secretive glances at her during the conversation. It was as though the two of them shared something special, and whether or not they truly did was unknown to either, but she chose to feign innocence at the suggestive and intriguing manner in which he would cock one eyebrow in her direction, and focus her attention instead on her butterbeer.

Beside Seamus and next to her on her immediate left, Ron was leaning close, his leg pressed against hers under the table. His foot had left its shoe and was currently coaxing hers out of her tightly laced sneaker, but this she completely ignored and looked at Harry as he argued with Dean about the quality of the new Winchester 750. She leaned toward Harry on one arm, but soon, under the table, she was rubbing the sole of her foot over Ron's ankle and tried not to smile at the pink blush which was creeping up the redhead's neck ever so slowly.

::: ::: :::

Despite the undeniable fact that she enjoyed her studies and her lessons, Hermione Granger was desperately bored in Professor Binns' lecture hall. Coaxed by her friends to sit in the last row, she at least had the opportunity to watch the rest of the class, but after a while that grew as dull as Binns' lectures on the history of house-elf bondage, which as far as anyone's research could conclude, the house-elves had practically begged to be kept on as maids and cooks and butlers. But Hermione's interest in the rights of house-elves, or the elves at all, had quickly vanished in her fourth year, when she had realized that house-elves would certainly perish in the world without someone on which to wait.

Beside her, Ron was stretched out, his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed against the next row of chairs. Every now and again, he would whisper jokes to her, but most of them were not very funny, and she rarely laughed. On the other side, the chair as empty; Harry had been called down to Professor McGonagall's office, probably to discuss the Quidditch season, and had not been seen since breakfast.

Literally bored to tears, she wiped her eyes and sighed, leaning heavily onto the table in front of her, and allowed her gaze to wander. Most of the class was sleeping, from Neville Longbottom to Pansy Parkinson, whose painted eyelids fluttered every so often, whose mouth jerked down into a frown at intervals. This was amusing for several minutes, at least, until Pansy was jolted awake by the tip of a wand poked in her side. She whipped around, her magicked curls bouncing meanly, and scowled at the amused, pale, and pointed face of Draco Malfoy only momentarily, until she realized it was Draco who had poked her into consciousness; and she batted her eyelashes at him in a weak attempt to flirt.

Hermione's interest piqued, and she watched Draco with a subtle fascination. He moved with a regal air about him, graceful but powerful and enticing. Under an open window, now, sunlight washed over him, and he shone gold; in the past, she had seen the blue light of the moon wash over him in a very similar manner, and he had glowed silver. He was a pale fire, Draco Malfoy, as his father had been decades before; his eyes were stormy grey one moment and sparkling silver the next, or, as they were now, pale gold, as he grinned at Pansy Parkinson and toyed with her curls with one smooth, tapered hand.

A sudden image of Draco throwing her down onto one of the tables in the lecture hall flashed through Hermione's mind; his lips nibbling her neck, his muscled stomach pressed between her legs. With a sigh, another image flashed through her mind, of Draco tangled in the green velvet bedding of the Slytherin dormitory, of his milky skin ravaging her own subtle tan, his fingers working magic on her flesh. And in her mind, she was pinned beneath him on her own scarlet bedding, and he was taking her with heat and passion and a surprisingly gentle touch, whispering that he loved her into her wild mane of hair.

"Look at her, will you?" whispered Ron, shaking her from her revery. "Malfoy's got poor Pansy over there nearly coming by just looking at her."

"I wonder what she's thinking about."

Ron looked at her incredulously, then at Pansy and Draco, and then at her again. She refused his gaze, her groping Draco's figure with her chocolate eyes, and Ron put his hand on her leg.

"You don't think he's attractive, do you?" She shrugged noncommittally, and he gaped at her, taken aback. "But you wouldn't go for a guy like that, would you?"

"If the opportunity arose," she said. "Yes, I would." Binns dismissed the class, Ron regarded her with a rather wounded look, and she whispered in passing on her way out the door, "Meet me after supper if you want to be shown what he's missing by wasting time with Pansy." 

Ron paled beneath his freckles, but he met her after supper; and he delighted in showing her every reason she should only make eyes at him, Ron, and not Draco. But as he whispered into her hair that he loved her, she closed her eyes, and imagined that the tangle of lips and limbs and pale skin was that of Draco Malfoy, and she smiled against his shoulder.

::: ::: :::

It was Christmas, which meant that the sixth-year girls dormitory was empty but for one. Thrilled to have the room to herself, Hermione lounged on her bed, reading, most of the afternoons, or watching the snow fall through the great vaulted windows, or sitting with Harry and Ron and Colin and Dennis Creevey in the common room in front of a fire. Colin had been furious with himself for allowing Dennis to tag along when he had been invited to sit with them, but Hermione held a certain fondness for the third-year that she couldn't quite explain.

The noon meal was exquisite, as it always was at Hogwarts, but she had no appetite; though she was encouraged by Harry and Ron to eat something, anything, she just couldn't bring herself to eat more than a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup and a slice of buttered bread. She left the Great Hall while the boys pulled wizard crackers and dodged the flying mice, and, after hesitating slightly in the common room to dig a book from between cushions in her regular armchair, she retired to her dormitory. As it was the holidays, she was wearing a short plaid skirt and white blouse, ribboned with ruffles to resemble a tuxedo shirt, underneath her robes, which she shed upon entering the velvet-draped room. Her hair was pushed off of her face by a headband which matched the skirt, and a silver watch dangled from her wrist. She slipped off her sneakers and was about to retreat into the bathroom for a bath when she heard the rustle of bedding behind her.

Turning around, expecting Ron, Hermione nearly dropped her book when she saw Draco Malfoy sitting on the edge of Parvati Patil's four-poster bed, his uniform shirt unbuttoned halfway and his hair falling from its usual sleek perfection. The image of his hands sliding her skirt from her thighs, his breath hot against her lip, flashed through her mind, almost drawing a purr from her throat. Instead, she smiled, leaning her weight on one leg while crossing her arms under her breasts and tilting her head to one side. Her mass of curls shifted slightly with the movement, and a flicker of intrigue showed itself in Draco's pale eyes.

"A Slytherin," she said in a voice lower than hers typically was, "sitting in a Gryffindor girls' dormitory? Well, doesn't that paint a pretty picture for any professor who might stumble upon the scene." He was on his feet, and walking toward her with a graceful hesitance which startled her ever so slightly; she held her breath.

"You think too much about the future," he said, and silently she thought that she never thought about the future, only fictional scenarios which would never lay themselves out exactly as she'd imagined them. "Ignore the future. Forget what will happen tomorrow, or tonight, or in two hours' time. For that matter, ignore the present, too."

"You can't ignore the present. That's denying reality. Impossible." He was standing just in front of her now, his arms crossed over his chest in a mock gesture, his pale hair falling over the slope of his nose and his silver eyes, and he was looking down at her; she noticed with amusement when his eyes trailed down her neck and the open collar of her blouse, and she cleared her throat. "And anyway, you still haven't told me what you think you're doing in here to begin with."

But instead of saying something witty, as she had expected, he leaned down and very gently kissed her pink rosebud lips, and she was even more pleased than she would have been had he merely said something to make her laugh. It was a chaste kiss, beginning and ending with his silken lips pressed to hers, and when he pulled away several moments later she looked up at him in surprise.

"Why, Mister Malfoy, if you think you can just waltz in here and kiss me like that you are most mistaken," she said, and he looked slightly jarred.

"But I thought - "

"You thought wrong," she said. "It's going to take a little bit less talking and a lot more tongue than that to convince me you should stay, Malfoy."

At this he looked genuinely startled, but drew his arms around her shoulders and licked her bottom lip; she was instantly against him, her breasts pressed to his chest and her lips devouring his. Her skin was hot against his, and he backed her onto her bed, where his hands pushed up her skirt and swept over her legs and hips. And then both of their hands were fumbling with buttons, while their mouths were meshed together in almost violent waves of kisses and nibbles; as much as she wanted to see his face when her blouse slipped from her shoulders, she didn't dare open her eyes for fear that it would be Ron's red hair brushing against her temple and not Draco's baby-fine platinum, and she arched into him as his hands tickled the small of her back. His kisses left her mouth, and now his lips were nibbling her throat, his fingers were working magic on her heated flesh, his muscled stomach was pressed between her legs as she sighed against his ear; he pressed forward slightly, and she was pinned beneath him on her own scarlet bedding, and he was so very near to taking her right then and there, when from the common room below they heard the voices of her friends, of Ron and Seamus and dear little Dennis Creevey.

"Wait," she whispered, holding a hand to his chest. He paused, his forehead coming to press between her breasts, his thumb nestled between the elastic of her panties and the flesh beneath, and he sighed. "They'll hear us."

"Not if we're quiet," he said wickedly, bringing his face level with hers, and he smiled just as wickedly. "We can be quiet, can't we?"

Practically ignoring his words, she looked past him, at the door on the opposite wall. "The door isn't locked."

Draco unwound himself from her legs and crossed the room, holding his uniform grey trousers up with one hand, and Hermione smiled to herself; she had undone the fly, her hands preforming tricks without coming into contact with the flesh below his boxers, which she now saw were printed with a number of tiny green Slytherin snakes. He turned the lock and stalked back over to the bed, where Hermione had moved back and lay back, propped up on her hands spread behind her. He swept over her, his navel even with her knees, and he kissed her belly and the flesh below her navel. Just as she began to squirm from his barely-felt touch, he crawled up on his elbows and kissed her full on the mouth, and he took her with heat and passion and a surprisingly gentle touch, whispering that he loved her into her wild mane of hair.

::: fin :::


End file.
